The Diary

05 March 2008: Owls Of Pain As Baggies Snatch More-Than-Last-Gasp Winner!

Funny how selective memory can be, sometimes, isn?t it? There we were, after the final whistle, in our jam-jar and listening to all these disgruntled Wednesdayites giving it big licks about how tonight?s referee, Andy D?Urso, had robbed them of at least a point. Oh, dear. Our Hillsbrough chums were busy screaming blue murder about how the aforementioned whistler had done them by allowing play to go on for several minutes in excess of the allotted 90 minute span ? only for Albion to smash-and-grab a winner some two minutes after the extra five minutes indicated by the fourth official, and even then, D?urso played a further two after that, making NINE extra minutes in total.

Such was the sheer amount of vituperation heaped upon that gentleman\s head by Owl-lovers afterwards, I reckoned that his ears must have been glowing white-hot by that stage of the proceedings. But all these aggrieved Wednesday supporters had missed - whether by accident or design I wouldn?t like to speculate ? one fundamental fact.

When they came to OUR place, quite early in the season, match referee Miller, having already contrived to disallow an Albion goal that was perfectly legit (would have been offside, certainly, had it been an Albion player putting the ball in the onion-bag, but it WASN?T, unfortunately. Dickhead Features promptly suffered an acute attack of amnesia on that one, so ruled out the strike instead), then played well over the agreed limit of stoppage time at the end. Result? Precisely the same one we all witnessed tonight, but with Wednesday getting an equaliser they certainly didn?t deserve back then, and us smashing and grabbing all three this time round.

After Kev Phillips gained the day for us in such dramatic fashion, it was quite astonishing how many of our contingent had the same word hovering on the tips of their tongues, which was ?REVENGE!?, both pure and unadulterated. But, as I said, not a few Wednesday people on Radio Five?s phone-in omitted this small detail when telling the media people about the game. Fair play, though, to one Owls-lover, who had been at the Hawthorns that early-season night, and was freely prepared to admit, on national radio, that we were hard done by in the way Miller had allowed play to go on until Wednesday had scored ? the build-up to their goal also involved a nasty foul on yet another of our players, and one that went unnoticed by Dork Features also - and that Kismet had finally caught up with Wednesday, at long last!

Tonight?s result was a massive, massive one, especially when considered in the context of Bristol City sharing the points with Charlton, and Watford drawing their game also. Our League standing is still unchanged, but the way tonight?s games have panned out, the gap between us and those in the top three has been reduced considerably. And not only that, riding hard on the back of our excellent win will be that all-important Bristol Rovers Cup game, next Sunday evening. We go into that in the best possible frame of mind, and for that we should thank that incredibly resilient performance at Sheffield.

There were various other matters that tended to mar even more what had been, up to the goal, a scrappy and fear-ridden game. And Mr. D?Urso?s over-fussy interpretation of the rules didn?t help either. The other big mystery was, for me, the dismissal of their guy and the yellow-carding of Gera, not long before the end. And all because our lad tried to interfere in what had hitherto been a punch-up in which Greening seemed to have come off worse. It?s not too often you hear members of BOTH supporting factions chant, ?YOU DON?T KNOW WHAT YOU?RE DOING ?..? but it sure as hell happened tonight.

Had the journey to Sheffield been recognised as a precursor of the way our form would pan out on the night, all three of us would have simply not bothered making the journey up the M1, would we? Just about everything possible conspired to delay or annoy us this afternoon and early evening: road works, delays, and, as if to dollop the ?icing? right on top of the ?cake?, the sight, irritating beyond belief, of a massive lorry chugging past said road works at around ten mph, in the middle of the road, and with the police seemingly disinclined to give the poor driver any assistance whatsoever. Grrrrr. But what did greatly transcend all those petty irritations was the sunset we witnessed en-route. My, what a spectacular affair, all reds, livid purples, and gold, the works, in fact.

That majestic sight must have stirred something scientific in Tel?s brain, because as we hit yet more road works heading into the city proper, he then proceeded to ask me a stream of questions about the stars, the same ones we could see twinkling merrily away in the jet-black sky above our heads. How far away were they, and how big? That answered to the best of my knowledge, the conversation then progressed in the direction of a certain Stephen Hawking, whose biopic was on Channel Four last night. That leading right up to what our greatest living scientist thought about black holes, and their somewhat bizarre potential for sucking in unwary space travellers, unable to get our because of a thundering great gravitational field there. That?s why they?re called ?black holes? ? because gravity is so strong in them, even light can?t get out. And the fact I was missing a Horizon scientific programme, all about finding new Earth-like planets orbiting their own parent Sun ? and the possibility, however, remote it might seem at this moment in time, of us discovering intelligent life out there. Coo ? things don?t half get intellectual in what was the Dickmobile, sometimes!

The next problem? Finding somewhere to park, of course. The master-plan had been to get there so early, that aspect of the trip shouldn?t have been a problem, but we were delayed, so had to take our lumps in that respect. No alternative but to bite the bullet, and go for one of the parking areas that charged the unwary supporter, a full three squid in this instance. Could have been worse, though ? much, much worse.

There then followed a slow descent down the hill to Hillsbrough proper. Terraces innumerable loomed out of the darkness, and all complete with sandbags, stacked ready for the next time the River Don decided to play environmental silly sods by bursting its banks, which it did last summer, if I remember correctly. And all of that going on in Leake Lane, too. How very appropriate.

After all our monumental efforts to get there, locating, then passing through the away turnstiles, was a comparatively easy task. A brisk little ?click? saw us looking at the bottom of a steep flight of steps. ?Im Indoors mocked the time it was taking me to negotiate them, but as I pointed out to him, ?Just you wait until it all catches up with YOU, matey ? you won?t find it funny then!?

Once at the top, the relatively-new vista of refreshment bars, ?wet? bars, and just plain Mars bars, was there for us to peruse at our leisure. But ?Im Indoors had a couple of other ideas. First off, being the chauffeur, and knackered by the sheer tedium of driving, my other half fancied a coffee something rotten, which I duly fetched while he was talking to Manchester Baggie Dave Baxendale, plus attendant son, who, I swear, gets bigger every single time I clap eyes on him.

But first, a little bit of fun at the expense of my old ?sparring partner?, Steve Brookes, bless his over-productive, but VERY noisome, small intestines. While waiting to get served at the coffee counter, I spotted the aforementioned gentleman bearing gifts, in the form of whacking great dollops of what used to be known as ?plastic cups? in the trade. Full of ale to take back to his chums, no doubt.

Only one thing to do, then. Give him some heavy-duty grief while his back was turned. Which I duly did by giving the lad an almighty ?whack? with my stick on his fundament, then skipping merrily away as fast as my little legs (and my stick) would let me, leaving a very puzzled Brooksie scanning the entire area in an abortive effort to locate the evil so-and-so that had done it! Yes, I know, I?m easily amused. But it ain?t half fun, sometimes!

Coffee drunk , hubby refreshed, and, for all I knew, Brokksie still looking for me, time to brave the rapidly-plummeting temperature outside. A ?sit anywhere? jobbie tonight, it was, so we did- and, not long after that, who should come through the exit and down the gangway, but Laraine Astle. With her young grandson, Matthew, now aged ten, and with two birthday presents, in the form of a hat and a Baggies flag, the latter draped tastefully around his youthful shoulders.

We hadn?t seen her for quite some time, so it was very much a case of ?hugs and kisses all round? at first, the lady reserving a particularly sloppy one for The Fart. In answer to the obvious question, yup ? Laraine will be going to Bristol next Sunday, but not with Matthew, sadly ? it?s far too late for him, the return journey, what with having to go to school the next day, and everything, but he would be able to watch it on the box, of course.

The forthcoming FA Cup Final 40th anniversary reunion? No, too many painful memories, what with all Jeff?s team-mates being there in one place, and all the anecdotes flying. But, in answer to my question: should we ?go all the way?, would she be going to Wembley for that, given the 40th anniversary and all the memories that place would dredge up once more? Yes, she would go, although actually being there, and during this year of all years, wouldn?t be easy.

As she?d nattered to us for so long, she then elected to park her bot in the seats next to ours: slight rearrangements were necessary, which were effected quite easily by telling The Fart, ?Make way for Royalty in our row?? Mind you, The Fart was having trouble of his own trying to find Radio Sheffield on his trusty steam tranny. Curiously enough, just a few minutes earlier, our hero had asked one of the locals for the frequency ? and guess what? Despite listening to the thing practically every day of the year, he hadn?t got the slightest clue where to find it on the dial! Dearie, dearie me.

Looking at the rest of the ground from our somewhat elevated vantage point, one thing struck me in particular: they sure as hell weren?t going to break any attendance records that night. Sure, the place is designed to cope with in excess of 40,000 people, but tonight, there were far more blue spaces than bods sat in the seats there. Even allowing for the sheer size of the place, it was still a pretty poor turnout, by anyone?s lights. How are the mighty fallen. And they might fall further still, should results for the remainder of the season continue to go badly for them.

Then our finest decided it was high time they emerged from their warm hidey-hole ? but in those awful black shirts again? I?d thought that the club had decided not to bother after the Preston fiasco. Seems that I was wrong, then. They did, however, make one helpful change of a sartorial nature: using WHITE shorts, the idea presumably being to facilitate picking people out on the flanks. Well, we?d see. Then Wednesday emerged, to the hated Jeff Beck tune: ?Hi-Ho Silver Lining? Hated because it was the signature tune of a certain bunch of degenerates just a few miles up the A41. No prizes for guessing what our lot did to the chorus!

And just before the start, I decided to pull out my hat and gloves, as the weather was turning very parky indeed. My efforts to do so amused those in the row behind enormously; pulling items of apparel from out of pockets, both inside and out, does have its moments, I suppose. But the best bit, apparently, was when I struggled with the woolly hat, buried deep inside an internal pocket. Said I to the grinning guy sitting behind, after a protracted struggle to flourish said item, ?It?s OK ? I deliver babies in my spare time?..?

Our starting eleven? As per the last time, bar for a few changes wrought by injury, and return from injury. Ish Miller, Saturday scorer, sat this one out, while fellow-striker Luke Moore made his first full start for us since leaving the Seal Sanctuary a couple of miles down the road from our place. As I?d suspected, Gera came in for the injured Tex, with Messrs. Phillips and Morrison taking up bench space also on their respective comebacks from the den of iniquity known as ?the treatment room?.

Not long after that, tonight?s ref, the lovely Andy D?Urso, Nemesis of bloody Stoke just two days before, when he gave one of their players a somewhat controversial early bath during their losing game with QPR, blew his whistle to get the show on the road.

And with that, it could well have been the sort of start we would have not liked: with just seconds on the clock, Wednesday, going forward like the clappers, let fly with a humdinger that had Deano having to dive pretty sharpish to negate the danger. Even worse, it took him two attempts, one fumbled, to finally extract the poison from the ball, then gather it in anticipation of the next Albion move upfield.

Then it was our turn to give the opposition an early fright. Courtesy ex-Seal Moore, this one, but their keeper got to the ball before any real damage could be done. Then it was Wednesday?s turn to test Albion anal sphincters to destruction, the cross zinging over the collective heads of our defence, and the Owl on the receiving end heading the ball with a fair bit of pace: luckily, Deano had his ?sensible? head on for that one ? which wasn?t always the case later on!

But I get ahead of myself. ?Blimey, he?s a big lad?.? That was The Fart?s snap-appraisal of the Wednesday player that fast seemed to be emerging as their Number One Nuisance: a lanky-looking lad, all arms and legs, who rejoiced in the wonderful name of Enoch Showunmi, and on loan from Bristol City apparently.

And the way he was picking up just about every loose ball on his side of the pitch could have spelt real trouble for us, but for one fundamental shortcoming, on his part. Once he?d got the ball, he just couldn?t seem to do much more with it! Always looked dangerous with the ball, but when it came to achieving something more positive, just couldn?t cut it. Which was why City had sent him out on loan in the first place, apparently. A bit like Saddam Hussein and those elusive ?weapons of mass destruction?, I suppose.

There were more attacks, both Albion and Wednesday, but for the most part of the first half, it really was a hard slog for both sides. A niggly, fractious game, in which both sides gained and lost possession with the regularity of a fighting patrol sent out to do similar to Western Front German trenches every night. And with just as much pent-up animosity, it would seem.

A prevailing mood that wasn?t helped by the somewhat fussy way in which referee D?Urso handled the thing. Which wouldn?t have mattered a damn, normally, but when you?ve got someone in charge who blows up for petty infringements one minute, then completely ignores blatant attempts to separate limbs from torso via the overuse of physical violence, it?s only then you realise you?ve got big problems out there.

But two important things to note, here: first off, we hadn?t conceded early on, as was our wont in recent games, and secondly, we were spending a far greater proportion of the half camped in their part of the pitch. One sour note, though: an over-reliance, on our part, on long-ball tactics, which wasn?t helping the natural flow of the game one little bit. And didn?t achieve anything anyway.

As for Deano, he now seemed to be exploring avenues of eccentricity not seen from a Baggies keeper in ages. What are we to make of his attempt to take a throw in, for example? Had he gone down that route, it would have left our goal awfully exposed, and in any case, the last keeper I ever saw try to pull that one off was Ossie, back in the Sixties.

When you?re as eccentric, but brilliant with it, as he was, you can be excused the occasional foible, I suppose. Trouble was, Deano wasn?t. After one abortive attempt to kick the ball out had landed it over the touchline yet again, one annoyed wit to the rear of the stand yelled: ?Get yer slippers off!? Tel, not to be outdone, bawled, ?Go to SpecSavers, Kylie?.?

And as for what was going on at the far end of the pitch, it was Koren, I think, who came about the closest, with one hell of a shot that had their keeper desperately trying to make flesh meet ball. The other moment was when we might have got off the mark was completely mullocked by Robbo, about ten before the break, and with a pretty good sight of the target, too.

The action then swung back in Wednesday?s favour, with them going close on one occasion, but at least we could all go into the break safe in the knowledge that we were still in there pitching. Good to know, that, as word had previously come via Tel?s trusty tranny that other games elsewhere were going well for us. Allelujah! Somebody actually likes us!

As the half wound down to its conclusion, some Wednesday player or other must have taken suicide pills or something. How else do you explain running through Robbo like a tank with the throttle wide open and the brakes taken out? As I said to Tel: ?Revenge will be mine ? but only when the ref?s back is turned?.?

And so it came to pass that D?Urso finally took them in. And, as both sets of combatants cleared the field of battle, so did sundry moans commence from The Fart, concerning the overall standard and quality of the game. Which was dire, I agreed, but I also pointed out what the score was during the corresponding fixture last season, viz: two goals down within ten minutes of the start, and something pretty nasty percolating through the entire side, the sort of couldn?t-care-less-because-we-never-wanted you-here-in-the-first- place type of pernicious behaviour that can completely destroy the authority of managers before they even start. Just as well all that kind of cancer?s since been well and truly eradicated from the side, then, isn?t it?

And so to the second bit, with Albion shooting into the goal at our end, as The Fart so optimistically pointed out to me. Wednesday were the first of the two to try and draw blood, but the shot just went wide of the target, thank goodness. And Luke Moore, finding, I suspect, the necessary adjustment from Prem to Championship difficult to make, couldn?t quite latch on to a lovely Gera cross, either. Then, just a few minutes later, tried to take on the world and its brother in the box, and, predictably enough, couldn?t.

But it sure looked bad for us with around 15 minutes of the half gone. Bednar, who needed lengthy treatment for a nasty knock to his lower leg, tried to run off the problem, but it simply wasn?t working. Time for Mogga to sort out a subbing, which he did by sending young Miller into the fray.

And a somewhat erratic one, too, which was a shame, after finally redeeming himself via one of the weirdest goals I?ve seen in a long time at the Hawthorns, last Saturday. He really is an infuriating man: on some days, he can be truly brilliant, a world-beater, almost. On others, he plays like an asthmatic carthorse ? and that was the Miller we were getting tonight, sadly.

But still just about everything possible was mitigating against our attempts to get something from the game. With around 20 to go, Brunt tried with a long-range effort that hit Moore, the ball then looping in the general direction of Koren, handily placed on the edge of the box. But all he could contrive to do was go very close indeed to the woodwork. Oh, dear ? time to bring on our de facto secret weapon, Kev Phillips. p As far as I could see, the game was set to end bloodlessly for both sides, but then the incident occurred that completely changed everything. I hadn?t really seen everything go off, so one minute there was a game going on out there, the next, there was an almighty scuffle taking place right outside the players? tunnel, and with more from both sides piling in with every second that passed.

Thanks to Tel and his commentary, we were to learn that Wednesday?s Johnson had whacked Greening in the face with his elbow, with Greening retaliating. It sure looked like curtains for the pair of them, but, for reasons best known only to himself, D?Urso (it?s not a bad achievement for a ref to be told ?YOU DON?T KNOW WHAT YOU?RE DOING?.? by both sets of supporters, is it?) had shown red to Johnson, but only yellow to our chap.

Oh, whoops. Down to ten, now, Wednesday were finding the task of holding us back pretty difficult ? and so, for the first time in the game, we started playing the sort of football that had opposing defences reaching for the Immodium during the earlier part of the season. Time after time those attacks from the flanks went in, but we were fast running out of that very same commodity ? time ? too.

Wednesday, with full time fast approaching, and pragmatically reaching the conclusion that a point was better than a kick up the backside, started engaging in the same sort of blatant time-wasting tactics that had defined their Hawthorns appearance earlier in the current campaign. Clearly, even their ball boys were under strict orders: on one occasion quite close to the advent of added-on time, after the ball wnet out of play behind the Wednesday goal, their keeper sauntered slowly over to their ball-boy, who showed not the slightest bit of interest in throwing the ball to the player. And, on another occasion, yet more slow-mo action, with the ball-boy doing sod-all again.

That was one of the reasons why D?Urso added on all that extra time, which turned out to be far in excess of the five minutes shown by the fourth official, most of which had been for the Bednar thing, then the fisticuffs involving Greening and their bloke. Sensing the distinct possibility we might just do it, our people roared on the players mightily. Every single time an Albion player got the ball, it resulted in a lighting-swift surge down the flanks, with the Wednesday keeper having to earn his coin cutting out all the inevitable crosses. Six minutes played, now, and still no sign of D?Urso calling it a day. And that was the moment the introduction of Kev Phillips finally hit pay-dirt. Substitute Morrison was the provider, his cross reaching the master swiftly: all Kev then had to do was slot the ball home, which he did, to outbreaks of mass-hysteria in the away end.

Great cries of ?How do YOU like it, Wednesday?? came from the busy tongues of those so outraged at the end of the corresponding home fixture: that, along with the inevitable massed ?Boing!? and outbreaks of the 23rd Psalm, of course. As for Wednesday, they looked totally gutted. Serve the buggers right, I say.

And so, it was off to the Dickmobile, still sitting in the car-park where we?d left it. And we managed to get off to something of a flyer, too. Mind you, as we went in search of the M1 southbound junction, the language started flying around our vehicle thick and fast. How come? Well, ?Im Indoors had asked me to dial up The Noise on his phone, but didn?t give me the correct instructions for getting the right number up! And, when he tried to sort it at some traffic lights, when they changed, he chucked the thing back to me so quickly, I couldn?t catch it.

So it landed underneath the seat, where I couldn?t get to it. It took some bloody hard work to finally retrieve it, may I say ? and even then, when I rang the correct number, our garrulous friend just wasn?t there! Out taking part in the pub quiz I mentioned just the other day. How remiss of me to forget.

And Finally?. Talk about a ?kangaroo mind??. On the return journey, and on the M1, finally, The Fart started asking me more questions about the stars, and the current quest for planets circling them. How did scientists find them, given they were so far away? In a nutshell, two ways, I said. First by detecting the loss of light caused when a planet passed before the face of its parent sun, and the second via gravitational anomalies caused by much the same thing. Two minutes to digest all that- then the conversation switched right back, and without warning, to Albion substitute, Shelton Martis!

 - Glynis Wright

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